The Betrothed, by Walter Scott

Chapter the Eleventh.

—— The funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.

HAMLET.

The religious rites which followed the funeral of Raymond Berenger, endured without interruption for
the period of six days; during which, alms were distributed to the poor, and relief administered, at the expense of the
Lady Eveline, to all those who had suffered by the late inroad. Death-meals, as they were termed, were also spread in
honour of the deceased; but the lady herself, and most of her attendants, observed a stern course of vigil, discipline,
and fasts, which appeared to the Normans a more decorous manner of testifying their respect for the dead, than the
Saxon and Flemish custom of banqueting and drinking inordinately upon such occasions.

Meanwhile, the Constable De Lacy retained a large body of his men encamped under the walls of the Garde Doloureuse,
for protection against some new irruption of the Welsh, while with the rest he took advantage of his victory, and
struck terror into the British by many well-conducted forays, marked with ravages scarcely less hurtful than their own.
Among the enemy, the evils of discord were added to those of defeat and invasion; for two distant relations of Gwenwyn
contended for the throne he had lately occupied, and on this, as on many other occasions, the Britons suffered as much
from internal dissension as from the sword of the Normans. A worse politician, and a less celebrated soldier, than the
sagacious and successful De Lacy, could not have failed, under such circumstances, to negotiate as he did an
advantageous peace, which, while it deprived Powys of a part of its frontier, and the command of some important passes,
in which it was the Constable’s purpose to build castles, rendered the Garde Doloureuse more secure than formerly, from
any sudden attack on the part of their fiery and restless neighbours. De Lacy’s care also went to re-establishing those
settlers who had fled from their possessions, and putting the whole lordship, which now descended upon an unprotected
female, into a state of defence as perfect as its situation on a hostile frontier could possibly permit.

Whilst thus anxiously provident in the affairs of the orphan of the Garde Doloureuse, De Lacy during the space we
have mentioned, sought not to disturb her filial grief by any personal intercourse. His nephew, indeed, was despatched
by times every morning to lay before her his uncle’s devoirs, in the high-flown language of the day, and
acquaint her with the steps which he had taken in her affairs. As a meed due to his relative’s high services, Damian
was always admitted to see Eveline on such occasions, and returned charged with her grateful thanks, and her implicit
acquiescence in whatever the Constable proposed for her consideration.

But when the days of rigid mourning were elapsed, the young de Lacy stated, on the part of his kinsman, that his
treaty with the Welsh being concluded, and all things in the district arranged as well as circumstances would permit,
the Constable of Chester now proposed to return into his own territory, in order to resume his instant preparations for
the Holy Land, which the duty of chastising her enemies had for some days interrupted.

“And will not the noble Constable, before he departs from this place,” said Eveline, with a burst of gratitude which
the occasion well merited, “receive the personal thanks of her that was ready to perish, when he so valiantly came to
her aid?”

“It was even on that point that I was commissioned to speak,” replied Damian; “but my noble kinsman feels diffident
to propose to you that which he most earnestly desires — the privilege of speaking to your own ear certain matters of
high import, and with which he judges it fit to intrust no third party.”

“Surely,” said the maiden, blushing, “there can be nought beyond the bounds of maidenhood, in my seeing the noble
Constable whenever such is his pleasure.”

“But his vow,” replied Damian, “binds my kinsman not to come beneath a roof until he sets sail for Palestine; and in
order to meet him, you must grace him so far as to visit his pavilion; — a condescension which, as a knight and Norman
noble, he can scarcely ask of a damsel of high degree.”

“And is that all?” said Eveline, who, educated in a remote situation, was a stranger to some of the nice points of
etiquette which the damsels of the time observed in keeping their state towards the other sex. “Shall I not,” she said,
“go to render my thanks to my deliverer, since he cannot come hither to receive them? Tell the noble Hugo de Lacy,
that, next to my gratitude to Heaven, it is due to him, and to his brave companions in arms. I will come to his tent as
to a holy shrine; and, could such homage please him, I would come barefooted, were the road strewed with flints and
with thorns.”

“My uncle will be equally honoured and delighted with your resolve,” said Damian; “but it will be his study to save
you all unnecessary trouble, and with that view a pavilion shall be instantly planted before your castle gate, which,
if it please you to grace it with your presence, may be the place for the desired interview.”

Eveline readily acquiesced in what was proposed, as the expedient agreeable to the Constable, and recommended by
Damian; but, in the simplicity of her heart, she saw no good reason why, under the guardianship of the latter, she
should not instantly, and without farther form, have traversed the little familiar plain on which, when a child, she
used to chase butterflies and gather king’s-cups, and where of later years she was wont to exercise her palfrey on this
well-known plain, being the only space, and that of small extent, which separated her from the camp of the
Constable.

The youthful emissary, with whose presence she had now become familiar, retired to acquaint his kinsman and lord
with the success of his commission; and Eveline experienced the first sensation of anxiety upon her own account which
had agitated her bosom, since the defeat and death of Gwenwyn gave her permission to dedicate her thoughts exclusively
to grief, for the loss which she had sustained in the person of her noble father. But now, when that grief, though not
satiated, was blunted by solitary indulgence — now that she was to appear before the person of whose fame she had heard
so much, of whose powerful protection she had received such recent proofs, her mind insensibly turned upon the nature
and consequences of that important interview. She had seen Hugo de Lacy, indeed, at the great tournament at Chester,
where his valour and skill were the theme of every tongue, and she had received the homage which he rendered her beauty
when he assigned to her the prize, with all the gay flutterings of youthful vanity; but of his person and figure she
had no distinct idea, excepting that he was a middle-sized man, dressed in peculiarly rich armour, and that the
countenance, which looked out from under the shade of his raised visor, seemed to her juvenile estimate very nearly as
old as that of her father. This person, of whom she had such slight recollection, had been the chosen instrument
employed by her tutelar protectress in rescuing her from captivity, and in avenging the loss of a father, and she was
bound by her vow to consider him as the arbiter of her fate, if indeed he should deem it worth his while to become so.
She wearied her memory with vain efforts to recollect so much of his features as might give her some means of guessing
at his disposition, and her judgment toiled in conjecturing what line of conduct he was likely to pursue towards
her.

The great Baron himself seemed to attach to their meeting a degree of consequence, which was intimated by the formal
preparations which he made for it. Eveline had imagined that he might have ridden to the gate of the castle in five
minutes, and that, if a pavilion were actually necessary to the decorum of their interview, a tent could have been
transferred from his leaguer to the castle gate, and pitched there in ten minutes more. But it was plain that the
Constable considered much more form and ceremony as essential to their meeting; for in about half an hour after Damian
de Lacy had left the castle, not fewer than twenty soldiers and artificers, under the direction of a pursuivant, whose
tabard was decorated with the armorial bearings of the house of Lacy, were employed in erecting before the gate of the
Garde Doloureuse one of those splendid pavilions, which were employed at tournaments and other occasions of public
state. It was of purple silk, valanced with gold embroidery, having the chords of the same rich materials. The door-way
was formed by six lances, the staves of which were plaited with silver, and the blades composed of the same precious
metal. These were pitched into the ground by couples, and crossed at the top, so as to form a sort of succession of
arches, which were covered by drapery of sea-green silk, forming a pleasing contrast with the purple and gold.

The interior of the tent was declared by Dame Gillian and others, whose curiosity induced them to visit it, to be of
a splendour agreeing with the outside. There were Oriental carpets, and there were tapestries of Ghent and Bruges
mingled in gay profusion, while the top of the pavilion, covered with sky-blue silk, was arranged so as to resemble the
firmament, and richly studded with a sun, moon, and stars, composed of solid silver. This gorgeous pavilion had been
made for the use of the celebrated William of Ypres, who acquired such great wealth as general of the mercenaries of
King Stephen, and was by him created Earl of Albemarle; but the chance of War had assigned it to De Lacy, after one of
the dreadful engagements, so many of which occurred during the civil wars betwixt Stephen and the Empress Maude, or
Matilda. The Constable had never before been known to use it; for although wealthy and powerful, Hugo de Lacy was, on
most occasions, plain and unostentatious; which, to those who knew him, made his present conduct seem the more
remarkable. At the hour of noon he arrived, nobly mounted, at the gate of the castle, and drawing up a small body of
servants, pages, and equerries, who attended him in their richest liveries, placed himself at their head, and directed
his nephew to intimate to the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, that the humblest of her servants awaited the honour of her
presence at the castle gate.

Among the spectators who witnessed his arrival, there were many who thought that some part of the state and
splendour attached to his pavilion and his retinue, had been better applied to set forth the person of the Constable
himself, as his attire was simple even to meanness, and his person by no means of such distinguished bearing as might
altogether dispense with the advantages of dress and ornament. The opinion became yet more prevalent, when he descended
from horseback, until which time his masterly management of the noble animal he bestrode, gave a dignity to his person
and figure, which he lost upon dismounting from his steel saddle. In height, the celebrated Constable scarce attained
the middle size, and his limbs, though strongly built and well knit, were deficient in grace and ease of movement. His
legs were slightly curved outwards, which gave him advantage as a horseman, but showed unfavourably when he was upon
foot. He halted, though very slightly, in consequence of one of his legs having been broken by the fall of a charger,
and inartificially set by an inexperienced surgeon. This, also, was a blemish in his deportment; and though his broad
shoulders, sinewy arms, and expanded chest, betokened the strength which he often displayed, it was strength of a
clumsy and ungraceful character. His language and gestures were those of one seldom used to converse with equals, more
seldom still with superiors; short, abrupt, and decisive, almost to the verge of sternness. In the judgment of those
who were habitually acquainted with the Constable, there was both dignity and kindness in his keen eye and expanded
brow; but such as saw him for the first time judged less favourably, and pretended to discover a harsh and passionate
expression, although they allowed his countenance to have, on the whole, a bold and martial character. His age was in
reality not more than five-and-forty, but the fatigues of war and of climate had added in appearance ten years to that
period of time. By far the plainest dressed man of his train, he wore only a short Norman mantle, over the close dress
of shamois-leather, which, almost always covered by his armour, was in some places slightly soiled by its pressure. A
brown hat, in which he wore a sprig of rosemary in memory of his vow, served for his head-gear — his good sword and
dagger hung at a belt made of seal-skin.

Thus accoutred, and at the head of a glittering and gilded band of retainers, who watched his lightest glance, the
Constable of Chester awaited the arrival of the Lady Eveline Berenger, at the gate of her castle of Garde
Doloureuse.

The trumpets from within announced her presence — the bridge fell, and, led by Damian de Lacy in his gayest habit,
and followed by her train of females, and menial or vassal attendants, she came forth in her loveliness from under the
massive and antique portal of her paternal fortress. She was dressed without ornaments of any kind, and in deep
mourning weeds, as best befitted her recent loss; forming, in this respect, a strong contrast with the rich attire of
her conductor, whose costly dress gleamed with jewels and embroidery, while their age and personal beauty made them in
every other respect the fair counterpart of each other; a circumstance which probably gave rise to the delighted murmur
and buzz which passed through the bystanders on their appearance, and which only respect for the deep mourning of
Eveline prevented from breaking out into shouts of applause.

The instant that the fair foot of Eveline had made a step beyond the palisades which formed the outward barrier of
the castle, the Constable de Lacy stepped forward to meet her, and, bending his right knee to the earth, craved pardon
for the discourtesy which his vow had imposed on him, while he expressed his sense of the honour with which she now
graced him, as one for which his life, devoted to her service, would be an inadequate acknowledgment.

The action and speech, though both in consistence with the romantic gallantry of the times, embarrassed Eveline; and
the rather that this homage was so publicly rendered. She entreated the Constable to stand up, and not to add to the
confusion of one who was already sufficiently at a loss how to acquit herself of the heavy debt of gratitude which she
owed him. The Constable arose accordingly, after saluting her hand, which she extended to him, and prayed her, since
she was so far condescending, to deign to enter the poor hut he had prepared for her shelter, and to grant him the
honour of the audience he had solicited. Eveline, without farther answer than a bow, yielded him her hand, and desiring
the rest of her train to remain where they were, commanded the attendance of Rose Flammock.

“Lady,” said the Constable, “the matters of which I am compelled thus hastily to speak, are of a nature the most
private.”

“This maiden,” replied Eveline, “is my bower-woman, and acquainted with my most inward thoughts; I beseech you to
permit her presence at our conference.”

“It were better otherwise,” said Hugo de Lacy, with some embarrassment; “but your pleasure shall be obeyed.”

He led the Lady Eveline into the tent, and entreated her to be seated on a large pile of cushions, covered with rich
Venetian silk. Rose placed herself behind her mistress, half kneeling upon the same cushions, and watched the motions
of the all-accomplished soldier and statesman, whom the voice of fame lauded so loudly; enjoying his embarrassment as a
triumph of her sex, and scarcely of opinion that his shamois doublet and square form accorded with the splendour of the
scene, or the almost angelic beauty of Eveline, the other actor therein.

“Lady,” said the Constable, after some hesitation, “I would willingly say what it is my lot to tell you, in such
terms as ladies love to listen to, and which surely your excellent beauty more especially deserves; but I have been too
long trained in camps and councils to express my meaning otherwise than simply and plainly.”

“My story, then, must be a blunt one. Something there passed between your honourable father and myself, touching a
union of our houses.”— He paused, as if he wished or expected Eveline to say something, but, as she was silent, he
proceeded. “I would to God, that, as he was at the beginning of this treaty, it had pleased Heaven he should have
conducted and concluded it with his usual wisdom; but what remedy? — he has gone the path which we must all tread.”

“Your lordship,” said Eveline, “has nobly avenged the death of your noble friend.”

“I have but done my devoir, lady, as a good knight, in defence of an endangered maiden — a Lord Marcher in
protection of the frontier — and a friend in avenging his friend. But to the point. — Our long and noble line draws
near to a close. Of my remote kinsman, Randal Lacy, I will not speak; for in him I see nothing that is good or hopeful,
nor have we been at one for many years. My nephew, Damian, gives hopeful promise to be a worthy branch of our ancient
tree — but he is scarce twenty years old, and hath a long career of adventure and peril to encounter, ere he can
honourably propose to himself the duties of domestic privacy or matrimonial engagements. His mother also is English,
some abatentent perhaps in the escutcheon of his arms; yet, had ten years more passed over him with the honours of
chivalry, I should have proposed Damian de Lacy for the happiness to which I at present myself aspire.”

“You — you, my lord! — it is impossible!” said Eveline, endeavouring at the same time to suppress all that could be
offensive in the surprise which she could not help exhibiting.

“I do not wonder,” replied the Constable, calmly — for the ice being now broken, he resumed the natural steadiness
of his manner and character — “that you express surprise at this daring proposal. I have not perhaps the form that
pleases a lady’s eye, and I have forgotten — that is, if I ever knew them — the terms and phrases which please a lady’s
ear; but, noble Eveline, the Lady of Hugh de Lacy will be one of the foremost among the matronage of England.”

“It will the better become the individual to whom so high a dignity is offered,” said Eveline, “to consider how far
she is capable of discharging its duties.”

“Of that I fear nothing,” said De Lacy. “She who hath been so excellent a daughter, cannot be less estimable in
every other relation in life.”

“I do not find that confidence in myself my lord,” replied the embarrassed maiden, “with which you are so willing to
load me — And I— forgive me — must crave time for other inquiries, as well as those which respect myself.”

“Your father, noble lady, had this union warmly at heart. This scroll, signed with his own hand, will show it.” He
bent his knee as he gave the paper. “The wife of De Lacy will have, as the daughter of Raymond Berenger merits, the
rank of a princess; his widow, the dowry of a queen.”

“Mock me not with your knee, my lord, while you plead to me the paternal commands, which, joined to other
circumstances”— she paused, and sighed deeply —“leave me, perhaps, but little room for free will!”

Imboldened by this answer, De Lacy, who had hitherto remained on his knee, rose gently, and assuming a seat beside
the Lady Eveline, continued to press his suit — not, indeed, in the language of passion, but of a plain-spoken man,
eagerly urging a proposal on which his happiness depended. The vision of the miraculous image was, it may be supposed,
uppermost in the mind of Eveline, who, tied down by the solemn vow she had made on that occasion, felt herself
constrained to return evasive answers, where she might perhaps have given a direct negative, had her own wishes alone
been to decide her reply.

“You cannot,” she said, “expect from me, my lord, in this my so recent orphan state, that I should come to a speedy
determination upon an affair of such deep importance. Give me leisure of your nobleness for consideration with myself —
for consultation with my friends.”

“Alas! fair Eveline,” said the Baron, “do not be offended at my urgency. I cannot long delay setting forward on a
distant and perilous expedition; and the short time left me for soliciting your favour, must be an apology for my
importunity.”

“And is it in these circumstances, noble De Lacy, that you would encumber yourself with family ties?” asked the
maiden, timidly.

“I am God’s soldier,” said the Constable, “and He, in whose cause I fight in Palestine, will defend my wife in
England.”

“Hear then my present answer, my lord,” said Eveline Berenger, rising from her seat. “To-morrow I proceed to the
Benedictine nunnery at Gloucester, where resides my honoured father’s sister, who is Abbess of that reverend house. To
her guidance I will commit myself in this matter.”

“A fair and maidenly resolution,” answered De Lacy, who seemed, on his part, rather glad that the conference was
abridged, “and, as I trust, not altogether unfavourable to the suit of your humble suppliant, since the good Lady
Abbess hath been long my honoured friend.” He then turned to Rose, who was about to attend her lady:—“Pretty maiden,”
he said, offering a chain of gold, “let this carcanet encircle thy neck, and buy thy good will.”

“My good will cannot be purchased, my lord,” said Rose, putting back the gift which he proffered.

“Your fair word, then,” said the Constable, again pressing it upon her.

“Fair words are easily bought,” said Rose, still rejecting the chain, “but they are seldom worth the
purchase-money.”

“Do you scorn my proffer, damsel?” said De Lacy: “it has graced the neck of a Norman count.”

“Give it to a Norman countess then, my lord,” said the damsel; “I am plain Rose Flammock, the weaver’s daughter. I
keep my good word to go with my good will, and a latten chain will become me as well as beaten gold.”

“Peace, Rose,” said her lady; “you are over malapert to talk thus to the Lord Constable. — And you, my lord,” she
continued, “permit me now to depart, since you are possessed of my answer to your present proposal. I regret it had not
been of some less delicate nature, that by granting it at once, and without delay, I might have shown my sense of your
services.”

The lady was handed forth by the Constable of Chester, with the same ceremony which had been observed at their
entrance, and she returned to her own castle, sad and anxious in mind for the event of this important conference. She
gathered closely round her the great mourning veil, that the alteration of her countenance might not be observed; and,
without pausing to speak even to Father Aldrovand, she instantly withdrew to the privacy of her own bower.